From the Further Adventures of Captain William T Riker: Risa Blues
by therealmalone
Summary: Captain Riker is devastated when he discovers that his new commanding officer is none other than Calvin "Just Call Me Hutch" Hutchinson.
1. Chapter 1: Risa Blues

**From the Further Adventures of Captain William 'Kiss My Ass' Riker: Risa Blues**

by The Real Malone

After Captain Riker learned of his new assignment, you could say he was disappointed, a little let  
down. After a couple more tequila slammers, he was down right morose. Two lines of blow followed  
by a Manhattan, and Riker was fuming. He decided that the good and proper way to deal with his pain  
and disappointment was to extend his stay on Risa an extra day. A day turned into two days. "Risa is  
where I can really be myself, " he would often say without a hint of irony. And from the whorehouse  
to the bathhouse the Risians loved Riker. They loved his cheesy smile, his fluffy chest, his off-color  
jokes, and his willingness to sleep with anyone or anything he suspected of having a vagina. Most at  
Starfleet found him crass and somewhat weird-smelling, but here at Risa, he could be what he truly  
was - a drunken bore.

On the third day of his extended leave his ship, the _U.S.S. Nancy Pelosi_ , dispatched Lt. O'Brien to  
retrieve him. O'Brien had become quite the expert in retrieving his Captain during his tenure aboard  
the Nancy Pelosi. Things went easy when Riker was passed out, not so easy when he was merely  
shit-faced. Fortunately this time Riker was snoring drunkenly while O'Brien hustled him into the  
shuttle craft. Hours later, Riker came to and stumbled to the front of the craft.

"Hutchinson," he bleated through a head achey haze. "Calvin Fucking Motormouth Hutchinson!"

"Sir?" asked O'Brien.

"Admiral Hutchinson, that's our new command." said Captain Riker.

"What? What about Admiral Picard?" asked O'Brien.

"Starfleet finally got wind of his Xanax and Guinness diet."

"Ah, well, I wouldn't worry about Hutch, sir. He's top-notch." said Mr. O'Brien.

"Hutch!?" Riker sputtered. He could feel the cockpit spinning around him, at least more than it was  
already.

"Oh sure, call him Hutch. Everybody does. He's approachable like that. Very easy man to talk to. He's  
got a real talent for..."

"Small talk?"

"Oh you know him then?"

"Hutch!" cried Riker. "Don't tell me about Commander Hutch! The man's a total ass! Can you imagine  
being in a firefight with that fuck? You'd be having your ass handed to you on a platter while Hutch  
would be trying to match the fucking drapes!"

"Oh you're wrong there, Captain." O'Brien said cheerfully. "During the Cardassian War, I watched him  
kill two Cardassians with his bare hands."

"You _served_ with with that jag-off?"

"During the Cardassian War? Oh sure."

"He killed two Cardos with his bare hands? Why didn't he just shoot the fuckers?"

"We encountered a space-time thingy. Rendered our phasers inoperable."

Riker nodded. The space-time thingy was the bane of every space captain's existence. A space ship  
could be puttering along, minding its own business, when suddenly a space-time thingy could pop up  
out of nowhere, and just like that, you're surrounded by a gnarley whirlpool of bad CGI. A space-time  
thingy could ensnare your vessel like a jacked-up 4x4 after a night of mudding. The power of the  
space-time thingy was immense and unfathomable. It could turn your female ensigns into boys and back  
again, bring your demented granddaughter from the future to murder you, cause you to doubt your own  
existence, and then, just for a laugh, fling you into back in time to an historically significant  
period in history. You were hoping for the historic construction of the Netherlands' first dikes?  
Sucker! It's Hitler or nothing with the space-time thingy. Space-time thingys were also known as  
space-time maguffins. Riker did not know what a maguffin was, and as such, he stuck to the term  
"space-time thingy."

"We were pinned down, just two Cardassians, you see,'Don't worry boys,' he said, and just as calm as  
you please, snuck up, choked the life out of one poor bastard, brained the other one with his own  
phaser.'

Riker slumped in his seat, his fingers grasped the hard rigid foam contours of his seat; his mind  
racing. He needed a bloody mary; he needed a bloody mary right fucking now. What were the  
shuttlecraft's bloody mary capabilities? But Riker knew the truth. And the truth hurt. The truth was  
that a shuttlecraft's replicators couldn't make a bloody mary for shit. They had sailed between the  
stars, conquered the most exotic diseases imaginable, learned how to strip a man to his very atoms  
and build him back up again, but yet, still, they could not cure the common cold, and they sure as  
shit couldn't replicate a decent cocktail. What had possessed him to make O'Brien his second in  
command? The man was obviously an asshole who enjoyed mocking his captain. Worf followed orders. Or  
at least Worf followed orders as far as Riker could remember. Riker vowed to make Worf his first  
officer. As soon as he recovered from the hangover.


	2. Chapter 2: Ten Forward

**From the Further Adventures of Captain William 'Kiss My Ass' Riker: Ten Forward**

It must be said the difficulties of hosting a party are universally underrated. Finding the perfect caterer. Inviting the right mix of guests. Gracefully moving back and forth between the islands of people, insuring that noone feels neglected while keeping the conversation light and free of religion, politics, and sex. Not an easy job, but noone made it look as effortless as Calvin Hutchinson. His little get-togethers were so popular that many captains would use any excuse in the book to bring their ships to the Remmler Array ahead of schedule. All for the chance to indulge in conversations about Arkaria's wildlife and those delicious cucumber sandwiches.

Naturally, there was one captain immune to old Hutch's charms that would be Riker's former superior Jean-Luc Picard. The last time the Enterprise was in dry dock at the Remmler Array Picard skipped the party for a bout of horseback riding, one of Picard's euphemisms for snorting cocaine in the ready room and then ranting for hours on end about who in star fleet was possessed by a super intelligent space trilobite. God how Riker missed Picard! His dedication to duty and his paranoia were infectious. So much so that having a good time at the Remmler Array was unthinkable. Members of Picard's crew competed with each other to see who could throw the biggest eye roll Hutchinson's way.

So great was Picard's dedication, he practically lived in his ready room, just a few feet from the bridge he camped out his desk with a candy jar full of methamphetamine at his left elbow, bottles of Xanax and marijuana treats at his right (in case he needed to take the edge off), and a phaser in his lap. The ready room was not Riker's style. The bridge was not really his style either. "Worf is perfectly capable of blowing up anything that needs to be blown up." he would often say while ignoring a red alert. No Riker was more of a ten forward captain. "Ten Forward is the main artery of any ship." And by "main artery" Riker meant a place to get hammered and leer at the female members of this crew.

"Ale," said Riker.

"Vulcan Ale, sir?" asked the bartender.

"Vulcan? What? God no, just fucking ale ale!" sputtered Riker."My God, Vulcan tea, Vulcan ale. Tell me what is Vulcan for Vulcan brandy?"

"Vulcan Brandy?"

"Yeah.

"Vulcan Brandy."

"No damnit. What do they call it in their own language?"

"Vulcan Brandy. By an astonishing coincidence, the words sound exactly the same."

"Next you're going to tell me they have Vulcan pickles."

"Now that you mention it, I have a holographic space commercial right here."

The bartender activated a tiny holographic figure of an elderly Vulcan.

 _You've dined on pickles. But have you feasted on a Vulcan pickle?  
Longer.  
Firmer.  
Mmmm so salty, and just a bit sour.  
I know what you want to do.  
You want to put it in your mouth.  
Go ahead.  
Enjoy a pickle.  
Enjoy a Vulcan pickle._

"Only a Vulcan could be that fucking clueless." Said Riker and sipped his ale. "And how the hell did they get Ambassador Spock?"

"Times are tough."


	3. Chapter 3: Party on the Pagh!

**From the Further Adventures of Captain William 'Kiss My Ass' Riker: Party on the _Pagh_!**

At some point during the Enterprise's many blow-out parties (and I do mean _many_ ), Captain Picard would call out, "Oh Commander Riker, please regale the room about the time you bested that Junior Klingon officer in fisticuffs." After serving on a Klingon vessel as part of an exchange program, Riker had told Picard that he had secured his second-in-command position by beating up an officer named Klag. This, of course, played to Picard's prejudices concerning Klingons, and he readily accepted Riker's story. If Riker had told Picard that he had KO'd a grizzly bear with a right hook, it might have been just about as plausible. Klingons are an unusually robust humanoid species, and an asthmatic Klingon could have handed Riker his ass without breaking a sweat.

While the typical Klingon may be a murderous, drunken cutthroat, by and large they respect protocol, and Riker was allowed to take his position aboard the _Pagh_ without ceremony. And when Riker served aboard the _Pagh_ his day was synchonized like a beautiful pocket watch:

08:00...eat something awful, squirmy, and still alive

09:00...receive his morning wedgie from Captain Kargan

09:30...puke up the squirmy and still alive Klingon breakfast

10:00...pantsed by Captain Kargan on the bridge in front of the whole crew

11:00...fight off the targ that some Klingon a-hole set loose in his quarters (and really, that was immature even by Klingon standards)

12:00...eat something awful squirmy and still alive

12:30...puke up the squirmy and still alive Klingon lunch

13:00...hide in the aft section in an desperate attempt to sleep off the Klingon blood wine hangover

15:00...wake up from his drunken stupor to find a gob of shaving cream in one ear and "I R GAY" scrawled in sharpie across his stomach

16:00...attempt to finish some bullshit survey while Kargon tells him an incomprehensible Klingon joke while punching him in the arm

17:00...start pounding the blood wine

And oh how Riker loved the Klingon blood wine. It had this awful sickly sweet smell like putrid death. And if you could keep it down, it would get you _fucked up_. Majorly fucked up. One glass and Riker was ready to play "knock the noggin" with his fellow shipmates (not a great game to play with Klingons, trust me). Riker never asked where it came from or how it was made on the (correct) assumption that the answer would haunt and disturb him to the end of his days.

A week into his tour, Riker fell madly in love with an officer named Bah'let. Oh she was fine, supple clear skin, subdued ridges, and nice rack packed into that breastplate. Her laugh was loud, boisterous, and infectious. She hated Ferengis almost as much as Riker! A night of Klingon wine, an assload of PCP, and little of that Riker charm soon left him in traction and back aboard the _Enterprise_

The day of Riker's first meeting with the Hutch was a difficult one indeed. He was hung over; he was fresh out of amphetamines; he was stuck with Lt. Cmd. Worf. Riker had promoted Worf to second-in-command earlier that day and already he was regretting it. Not that Riker had anything against Klingons. Far from it. Klingons were fun. Riker had partied with them a lot, and he had only nearly died just that one time. Riker enjoyed his time on the _Pagh_ in the same way one might enjoy their time in a particularly intense and sadistic fraternity. Or perhaps it was Stockholm syndrome. It was hard to tell. But Klingons loved two things: murder and partying and not necessarily in that order. And of those two thing, Worf loved exactly zero of them. Worf spent his time meditating and grousing about honor. As far as Riker could tell, the only thing Worf loved was being miserable. Worf's inability to conform to this narrow sterotype frustrated Riker to no end. He was a total wet blanket and his very presence ruined all of Riker's racist Klingon jokes.


	4. Chapter 4: Enter the Hutch!

**From the Further Adventures of Captain William 'Kiss My Ass' Riker: Enter the Hutch!  
**

"...and that's why Ferengi's have such big ears." said Riker.

Hutch stared at him good naturedly, his rictus grin frozen on his face.

"Get it? Sound's free..."

Hutch shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

"Will, I don't mind a little coarse ethnic humor. But we've got plenty of Ferengis in Star Fleet, and they are good people and, they are essential to the health of this operation.."

Imagine if you will, a dark vale dropping across Captain Riker's face. For truly, Riker's worst nightmare had sprang to life. Hutchinson sat before him, a balding doughy shrine to political correctness. Riker could not say exactly what political correctness was, but he knew that was the very spector that haunted the dreams of every standup comedian, boorish uncle, and misogynistic pig. It was a great force of evil that permeated the universe much like gravity or original sin and it worked assiduously to prevent Riker from having any fun. Hutchinson was his commanding officer, and Hutchinson was telling Riker to respect his fellow beings. Riker had only had a couple of gears in his gearbox, and respecting others was not one of them.

"Of course, I have nothing but respect for Ferengis. Some of my best friends are Ferengi." lied Riker.

"I can't tell you how glad I am to hear that. If there's one thing we've learned here in the future is that space racism is bad. You know, a lot of people told me it was crazy to take you on. That you were lazy, morally suspect, a drunk, a scoundrel, a leacher, a moocher, a card cheat, and that you smelled weird. But Admiral Picard said that it was all nonsense, and he really vouched for your character."

Picard called Riker "Number One", but that was in name only. In reality, a robot named Data functioned as second-in-command in large part because Picard could never trust a human. Humans could be controlled by a super intelligent space trilobite. Plus the one time Picard _did_ leave Riker in charge, he returned to find that the ship's counselor (and, might I add, Riker's former girlfriend) had been turned into a salamander.

Picard loved having Riker on his crew for two reasons, getting wasted with Riker was always a blast, and he possessed an almost supernatural ability to score lots of pills at any time. And Picard need those pills just to stay functional. So great was Picard's gratitude, he was willing lie about Riker's abilities to anybody and everybody. "Riker is simply the finest officer with whom I have ever served." he said time and time again with little variance, and at times he meant it.

"'...with whom I have ever served!' said Admiral Hutchinson. "And we need someone like you. A man of action. A man of passion! I think you can really shake things up around here. And you've come along at the right time. I know you've had some experience with the J'naii."

Riker nodded solemnly, "I'm something of a J'naii expert if you don't mind me saying. J'naii is a planet populated solely by lesbians in Moe Howard haircuts. And man are they thirsty! Thirsty for dick!"

"Er, the J'naii are not lesbians. They're androgynous."

"Does androgynous mean 'crazy for cock'?"

"What I'm getting at is that the J'naii are entering a critical phase of negotiations, and the Federation would like to have a presence. I think that presence should absolutely be the _U.S.S Nancy Pelosi_!

From that moment Riker knew that this would a serious assignment, and he would need serious provisions. One kilo of Columbian cocaine, a handle of Tanqueray, a handle of Tito's Vodka, three pounds of Matanuka Tundra Fuck (sweetest grass there is), a whole hell a lot of boxed wine (the cheapest the Remmler Array had to offer), two handles of Knob Creek, a bottle of Balcones Baby Blue Corn Whiskey, 60 Benzos, 60 Xanax, three sheets of double-dipped LSD (each sheet with 32 Dumbos), a gallon of ether, two bottles of Obetrol, and a quart of tequila.

Worf was incredulous as he watched Captain Riker load the supplies.

"I didn't realize it was possible to score LSD at the Remmler Array."

"Worf, it's called connections."


	5. Chapter 5: Riker and the Terrible Ennui

**From the Further Adventures of Captain William 'Kiss My Ass' Riker: Riker and the Terrible Ennui**

Riker had definitely come down from the initial excitement over the J'naii assignment. To Riker the problem was clear - Starfleet was being run by a bunch of squares, and the squares had given their most exciting Captain a jag-off assignment. To make everything worse, Riker was almost certain that he had slept with one or more of the J'naii during his last assignment there. This, in Riker's experience, could lead to awkwardness, and awkwardness could lead to a general all around bring-down. God how he hated bring-downs! Riker finished his doobie and chugged a luke warm can of Bud Light. He finally had the Captain's chair and was it worth it? It seemed like he spent most of the _U.S.S. Nancy Pelosi_ 's time shuttling diplomats to and fro. Goddamnit! the _Nancy Pelosi_ was fully decked out and ready for war!

Riker stumbled out of his ready room and almost directly into Worf.

"Captain, Ensign Jordan has detected a temporal anomaly off the starboard bow."

Riker patted Worf on the shoulder.

"Fine, fine, I know you can handle it."

"But sir..." Worf sputtered.

"I know, son, but the Captain's gotta get his drink on." said Riker as he headed to the turbo lift. "Ten Forward if you need me and when in doubt...be aggressive. But you knew that right? You're Klingon and all."

"Ten Forward!" barked Riker to the turbolift and rested his forehead on the wall of the lift. He just needed to clear his head with some Ten Forward air and a good martini.

"What the fuck are you doing?" cried Riker.

"Replicating a martini." said the Benzite barkeep.

Clearly Riker had failed. He had failed to stock Ten Forward with competent bartenders. How was the _USS Nancy Pelosi_ supposed to complete her missions with a band of cocktail replicating idiots on board?

"There is a vat of Gordon's in the corner. Use that." said Riker. He kept the Plymouth in his ready room. Of course.

"Goddamit Motherfucker!" Riker cried as the barkeep began to shake the cocktail. "You're bruising it! Throw that bullshit out and this time stir it! And put some vermouth it in this time!"

The Benzite barkeep dutifully followed Riker's instructions and this time Riker tossed back the fresh martini with aplomb.

"Perfect. Three more of these, and be ready to stroke the ol' Bone."

By Bone, Riker meant his trombone, an instrument that he pulled out at the slightest provocation. He insisted on calling in his "Bone" because he thought that women found it funny when in reality most of them just found it weird and awkward. Riker was a competent trombonist, but his performances in Ten Forward tended to devolve into spittle drenched shrieks after too many cocktails.

"So what's your handle?" asked Riker, gesturing towards the barkeep with his glassware.

"I'm sorry sir, but the human tongue cannot form the sounds which make up my native name."

"I'm game. Lay it on me."

"Wendor."

Riker nodded, pondered the Benzite barkeep's name carefully, and then said, "Wendor?"

"Exactly. The 'wuh' sound in particular is what is so difficult for your species."

"What are you talking about? My first name starts with a 'wuh'."

"And so, Captain Riker, that's why no one uses your first name!"

Riker held up his empty glass. "Just give me another."

Three more martinis later and Riker was slumped over the bar, his chin hovering just a few inches above the bartop.

"I had it _hard_ for that girl. You know? I was ready to give up blow for that woman. She was brunette, she had smokey eyes, she told me all about Nicorette, she loved jazz, man, do you know how many people love jazz? Here in the future?

"Not many. Mosty pseudo-intellectuals and hipsters." said Wendor the Benzite.

Precisely. Precisely! Nobody! Oh man, I'll never find another woman like that." he moaned.

"What happened?"

Riker sat up straight and belched.

"Min? Oh yeah, turned out she was hologram."

"Hate it when that happens."

"Yep, a computer generated fantasy that some seriously funky-looking androgynous midgets cooked up for me."

"So your greatest love was a hologram. Let me guess, your second greatest love was a blow-up sex doll."

"You know what? I am feeling right!" said Riker. "I think it's time to whip out the Bone!"

As Riker made his through bridge, he paused before his ready room door.

"Worf, where is Ensign Jordan?"

"The temporal anamoly that we detected earlier? It turned out to be a Douwd, a god-like being with unfathomable powers."

"Uh huh."

"Well, yes, it turned Ensign Jordan into a toddler and then disappeared. Ensign Jordan is in the nursery now."

Riker firmly grasped Worf's shoulder. "Don't sweat it. Ensign Jordan's in a better place now, playing with his alphabet blocks and drooling on his bibi or whatever you call it. GLBs happen."

At this, having dispensed his hard won bit of wisdom, Riker steadied himself on the door frame and then marched into his ready room in search of his Bone.


End file.
